Monica Lewinsky Reckons With #MeToo in a Powerful New Essay: ‘I'm Not Alone Anymore’

Twenty years ago Monica Lewinsky was introduced to the world through Ken Starr's infamous 1998 investigation, which, among many things, looked into then President Bill Clinton's conduct during a sexual harassment lawsuit filed by then Arkansas government employee Paula Jones. A related piece of that investigation was a taped phone conversation that captured Lewinsky, then a White House intern, discussing having oral sex with Clinton. The taped conversation, provided to Starr by then civil servant Linda Tripp, made headlines—and in an era prior to #MeToo, resulted in massive backlash against Lewinsky. During what she calls "a year of shame and spectacle," she became one of the country's first victims of cyberbullying as the media tore her apart and gaslighted her, to the point where she was later diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder. Now she has written a powerful new essay for Vanity Fair, speaking out about the #MeToo movement.

She opens the essay with a description of how she ran into Starr on Christmas Eve last year, which brings the past into the present and allows her to take a wider view of how the events in '98 shaped today's national conversation. "Both clinically and observationally, something fundamental changed in our society in 1998, and it is changing again as we enter the second year of the Trump presidency in a post-Cosby-Ailes-O’Reilly-Weinstein-Spacey-Whoever-Is-Next world," she writes.

Lewinsky then discusses how the events of '98 led to a shared collective trauma for the nation that, perhaps, hasn't fully been resolved—never looked at in its nuance, in the agency of those who had power to defend themselves and a young woman who legally couldn't speak up for herself during the investigation.

"'I’m so sorry you were so alone.' Those seven words undid me," Lewinsky writes, before continuing:

"They were written in a recent private exchange I had with one of the brave women leading the #MeToo movement. Somehow, coming from her—a recognition of sorts on a deep, soulful level—they landed in a way that cracked me open and brought me to tears. Yes, I had received many letters of support in 1998. And, yes (thank God!), I had my family and friends to support me. But by and large I had been alone. So. Very. Alone. Publicly Alone—abandoned most of all by the key figure in the crisis, who actually knew me well and intimately. That I had made mistakes, on that we can all agree. But swimming in that sea of Aloneness was terrifying."

Now she finds a place for herself—even belatedly so—in the #MeToo narrative that not only lifts women's voices up but encourages them to come forward and provides support for those who make that journey alone.

"One of the most inspiring aspects of this newly energized movement is the sheer number of women who have spoken up in support of one another. And the volume in numbers has translated into volume of public voice. Historically, he who shapes the story (and it is so often a he) creates 'the truth.' But this collective rise in decibel level has provided a resonance for women’s narratives. If the Internet was a bête noire to me in 1998, its stepchild—social media—has been a savior for millions of women today (notwithstanding all the cyberbullying, online harassment, doxing, and slut-shaming). Virtually anyone can share her or his #MeToo story and be instantly welcomed into a tribe. In addition, the democratizing potential of the Internet to open up support networks and penetrate what used to be closed circles of power is something that was unavailable to me back then. Power, in that case, remained in the hands of the president and his minions, the Congress, the prosecutors, and the press."

She says that although what transpired between her and Clinton wasn't sexual assault, it was "a gross abuse of power." Lewinsky also talks about working through her gaslighting, about reconciling versions of experiences, of what she knew had happened. For her, #MeToo has given her a platform, community, language, and framework to reconsider what happened—and grapple with the nuances of power differentials and consent in a journey toward healing more closely than she'd be able to before.

"Now, at 44, I’m beginning (just beginning) to consider the implications of the power differentials that were so vast between a president and a White House intern," she writes. "I’m beginning to entertain the notion that in such a circumstance the idea of consent might well be rendered moot. (Although power imbalances—and the ability to abuse them—do exist even when the sex has been consensual.)

"But it’s also complicated. Very, very complicated. The dictionary definition of 'consent'? 'To give permission for something to happen.' And yet what did the 'something' mean in this instance, given the power dynamics, his position, and my age? Was the 'something' just about crossing a line of sexual (and later emotional) intimacy? (An intimacy I wanted—with a 22-year-old’s limited understanding of the consequences.) He was my boss. He was the most powerful man on the planet. He was 27 years my senior, with enough life experience to know better. He was, at the time, at the pinnacle of his career, while I was in my first job out of college. (Note to the trolls, both Democratic and Republican: none of the above excuses me for my responsibility for what happened. I meet Regret every day.)

"'This' (sigh) is as far as I’ve gotten in my re-evaluation; I want to be thoughtful. But I know one thing for certain: part of what has allowed me to shift is knowing I’m not alone anymore. And for that I am grateful."